


empiricals

by zigsexual (anythingbutloud)



Series: hypotheticals [2]
Category: The Royal Romance (Visual Novel)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-30
Updated: 2017-07-30
Packaged: 2019-11-06 21:39:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17947580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anythingbutloud/pseuds/zigsexual
Summary: the day after beaumont bash feat. brunch, croquet, holding hands, whiskey, olivia??????, kisses





	empiricals

**Author's Note:**

> riley's last name is aldridge in this verse

Riley can’t stop thinking about it. 

For the entirety of the party, she had stood there thinking about it: about the way his hands felt on her skin, the way he laughed as he helped her with her dress, the blush of his cheeks as he smiled at her with his hair all tousled from her fingers.

The rest of it had been a daze; a half-dream coated in glazed over memories of stolen kisses, making it near impossible to keep up appearances as she stammered through conversations with Liam and Drake and the other girls.

She’s got no idea how she’ll be able to handle it all over again today.

There’s a knock at her door, but she’s barely just sat up in bed and doesn’t feel like answering. The comforter is still pulled up around her like a cocoon, her hair knotted in what used to be a bun. She blinks. “Yeah?”

The door slides open, and Maxwell pokes his head in. “Riley?”

“Yeah?” she says again, biting into her bottom lip. He steps into the room, closing the door behind him, and she notices that he doesn’t look entirely done up himself, which is a first. His hair is still a little disheveled and he looks soft, fresh from sleep in the same way she is.

He pads over to her bed and sits down close at her side, turning to face her. It’s so reminiscent of the last time they were on a bed together that she feels her face redden, not that it seems to give him any pause.

“So,” he says, “I’ve got good news and bad news.”

Riley blinks at him again.

“You’re supposed to, you know,” Maxwell rubs at the back of his neck, “tell me which one you want to hear first?”

“Great.” Riley leans back into her pillow, closing her eyes with a grimace. “Okay, bad news. Hit me.”

Maxwell sighs. “Well, the bad news is that Liam wanted to have a little get together before the rest of the festivities kick off today, so he arranged to have an enormously elaborate brunch this morning as a surprise to the suitors and it’s here in my dining room and also Liam is here in my dining room, too.”

Riley sits up immediately, eyes wide. “What? He’s here, right now?”

Maxwell nods, and she presses her palms to her face, dragging them down her cheeks in frustration. “Fuck. Okay. What’s the good news?”

“Good news is that Drake managed to intercept him before he could really go to town, and now Drake and I are coming to the brunch too! It’s a friends-and-suitors brunch.”

Riley stares at him. “Excuse me, how is that good news? That’s even _worse_ news. That’s literally worse than the original bad news.”

“It’s not _that_ bad.”

Riley groans and pulls her comforter over her head, trying to block out the reality of her life. Brunch — elaborate, _royal_ brunch — with all three of the men currently in love with her. And all of the courtly ladies who want her gone. Awesome. Great. A fine example of the shitshow this trip to Cordonia has turned out to be.

There’s a rustle in the bed, a flurry of sheets, and then Maxwell’s head pops up and he is there too, under the comforter with her, inches away in the filtered light. She sits back on her hands and looks at him.

“ _I’ll_ be there,” he says quietly.

“That’s the worst part,” she replies. Because three guys in love with her? She can handle that. Certainly not ideal, but manageable.

The problem is the one that _she_ is in love with. The one under the comforter.

Riley leans forward and kisses him, needy and soft, and he lets his hand come up to touch her cheek, and at the feel of his skin she presses forward just a little too hard and tumbles against him in a mess of crisp white bedding.

Maxwell gazes up from underneath her with a sheepish smile, and she lets out a ragged breath before propping herself up on her elbows. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he says. “Just… you need to get dressed. For brunch.”

Riley smiles back. “You wanna help me?”

“God, no,” Maxwell rolls his eyes and sits up, pushing the tangle of sheets and blankets off of them as his feet touch back to the floor. “Sounds like the worst.”

“The worst,” Riley is still smiling, even as she watches him head back towards her door. “See you at brunch.”

“See you at brunch!” he calls back, and when he shuts the door, Riley collapses back onto the bed and kicks her feet into the air.

 —

“Do you want some cantaloupe?” Liam asks, holding out a bowl of fruit in her direction. “We had it imported so it would be ripe. Do you like cantaloupe? I didn’t know if it was a big thing in America, but—“

“Liam,” Olivia sighs loudly from her place across the table, “ _everyone_ has cantaloupe.”

“It’s okay,” Riley says, taking the bowl from him before Olivia has more of a chance to go off. “I love cantaloupe.”

Liam smiles at her, dazzling and smitten and terribly cute, and she feels her resolve waver. The brunch has been a so-far-so-good scenario, but any more of Liam’s doting and she might just crumble into dust.

Anyone would be so lucky to have him. Anyone _but_ her.

Next to Liam, Drake is silent and sullen (or, more so than usual). He keeps avoiding eye contact with Riley, which is probably for the best, given that they still haven’t spoken about that time when he showed up and promptly confessed his affection for her before vanishing back out into the night.

Thankfully, Maxwell seems to be pretty much his usual self, carrying on the conversation with Liam even as Riley stuffs her mouth full of eggs (and cantaloupe) in an attempt to speak as little as possible. Sometimes his arm brushes against hers as he brandishes his fork for anecdotal punctuation, and she feels her heart warm.

The other girls have been chattering amongst themselves, occasionally filtering in on the conversation in an attempt to draw Liam’s attention. Olivia and Madeline are the only two making any real progress, and are perhaps the only two really trying, as the rest seem to have resigned themselves to their fate. Riley wishes Hana were sitting closer to her, so at least she could have someone to ground her, to be a constant.

As it stands, Liam had asked if she would sit near him at the head of the table, and of course she’d said yes, and of course Drake and Maxwell had followed suit, and now of course here she is, wanting to die again.

She takes a sip of her mimosa. It’s not really mimosa, more champagne with an afterthought of orange, but it’s exactly what she needs right now.

“I didn’t realize you’d pulled out all the stops for the party,” Liam comments, looking over at Maxwell. “I mean, the chocolate fountain, the horses, the ice sculptures… there really wasn’t a need to do that for me.” He pauses, glancing over at Riley with a smile. “Well, I shouldn’t take all the credit. Riley wasn’t at a loss either.”

“Hmm?” Riley chews through a mouthful of toast, eager to change the subject away from herself.

“Your new dress,” Liam says. “It was so _you_ , and so you to debut it in the middle of an event, too. I think everyone else was jealous they hadn’t thought of it.”

Riley swallows. “Right. My new dress.”

Her mind flashes back to the day before, arguing with Maxwell while she stood in his room in only her underwear, hands thrown up in exasperation because why didn’t they have _any_ dresses in this whole goddamn estate didn’t women _ever_ visit like look a bachelor pad is one thing but a _mansion_?

Maxwell had crossed his arms and complained in a huff that it wasn’t just like girls were waltzing into his bedroom every other day and ripping their dresses so why should this even _be_ his fault when clearly she was the one with the faulty clothing.

In the end, she wore one of his shirts as a dress and knotted a belt at the waist. It practically _screamed_ ‘we just fucked in a back room’ (which was, unfortunately, not the case), but for some reason it passed off as chic. The timeless LBD and all that, praise the lord.

Maxwell coughs.

“Aldridge, ever the fashionista,” Drake rolls his eyes. “Thank god she’s got Maxwell to help her.”

“Don’t be rude,” Maxwell says sweetly, “You’re wearing double denim right now.”

Olivia has been watching Riley during this exchange, a bemused expression on her face. She glances between Drake and Maxwell, then says, “Right, the t-shirt dress.”

She takes a bite of omelet and chews for what seems like an eternity before speaking again. “Cute.”

When she smiles, it lacks all the comfort of warmth.

Riley focuses back in on her food, hoping that whatever god is out there, he will be a merciful one and let her go peacefully in her sleep tonight. They won’t even have to spare an expense for her funeral; they can just use the same flowers from the party. An ideal situation, really.

It’s only a moment later when she feels Maxwell’s hand brush against her knee. At first she thinks maybe it’s an accident, glancing over at him to find he’s still laughing with Liam. But then when she reaches down her own hand, his fingers find hers and intertwine together too quickly for it to be coincidence.

She feels a gentle warmth rise within her and pulls her bottom lip between her teeth, barely suppressing a smile. Next to her, Maxwell is talking as though he doesn’t have a care in the world, as if this brunch is merely a formality and not a terribly intimate moment hidden beneath stained wood and tablecloth. She watches him, wishing.

Maxwell looks over at her, catching her in the act of her admiration. There’s a blush spreading up her face now, and she squeezes his hand, her smile finally breaking free. He squeezes back, smiling at her too, and for a moment she feels alight with anticipation. Something flutters in her chest, too delicate to name.

“What?” Olivia says, breaking the spell. She’s looking at them with one eyebrow raised. “You two talking shit over there?”

Maxwell snaps his attention over to Olivia. “Riley had egg on her face.”

“Thanks,” Riley mutters, just as Olivia replies, “When does she _not_?”

So things continue as they do: Liam is kind, Olivia is loud, Drake is sarcastic and Madeleine is cunning. Hana knows all the finer points of dining etiquette, Penelope is fussed over her poodles, and god knows what language Kiara is speaking. It’s not a surprise, really — after all her events with this group, Riley knows the drill.

And yet, the break from normalcy, the one piece out of place in this delicately crafted puzzle: her hand, holding his.

—

The cleanup is easy and swift; when you’ve got an armada of household staff, things tend to go quickly. Riley almost wishes she could have a moment to stand in the kitchen, hands wet with soapy water, and clean off a dish. Just a moment to do something routine, to clear her head.

Yeah, she misses dishwashing. It’s been quite the day.

They’re outside on the lawn now, playing croquet. The sort of thing noble people do, apparently, when there aren’t enough horses around to play polo. Liam’s met his match with Olivia, who won’t even let a prince win, and the other girls are doing their best to keep up.

Riley is sitting this round out, hiding in the shade of the balcony. She can already feel the sunburn on her shoulders, and besides, it’s getting too hard to play along with coronation chatter again.

“What’re you thinking about?” Maxwell says, sidling up next to her. She jumps, surprised, and he laughs, leaning forward against the railing with her.

“I thought you were inside with Drake,” she says, folding her arms up next to his and looking out over the lawn. Hana is laughing at something Kiara has said, and Madeleine has a hand on Liam’s shoulder.

“I was,” Maxwell replies, “But he’s been… extra Drake-ish, lately. Probably something to do with his mad crush on one of the suitors.”

Riley groans and closes her eyes. “Don’t remind me. I’m trying not to think about my love life right now.”

“You might be the only one,” Maxwell looks out at the lawn too, his brow furrowed. “Seems like it’s all there is to think about these days.”

Riley straightens up. “Can we just… go do something? Something normal? Is there anything inside to clean or arrange or like, take down? I just…” She sighs. “I don’t know, all this stuff is messing with my head.”

Maxwell glances back at the doorway. “I mean, Liam brought his people, so there’s really not much to do in there. But I’m sure we could find something boring.”

“Boring sounds great,” Riley answers. “Let’s go be boring.”

Unfortunately, it only takes one thorough sweep of the Beaumont estate to recognize its veritable lack of household chores whatsoever. Riley realizes Maxwell wasn’t kidding about Liam’s “people,” who have gone as quickly as they came and left not a speck of dust in their wake. The place looks too perfect, just like the prince is too perfect and the palace is too perfect. Perhaps she has made a grievous error in thinking that seeking out boredom would be the answer to all this.

“What do you think I should do about Drake?” she asks Maxwell on their third meandering round through the house. “Should I talk to him, or will that make it weird?”

“The real question is, what should _any_ of us do about Drake?”

“I’m serious.” Riley stops in front of him, grabbing his arm. “What do I tell him? And, frankly, what do I tell _Liam_ for that matter?”

Maxwell tilts his head slightly, surveying her. “What do you want to tell them?”

Riley lets out an exasperated sigh. “You can’t answer a question with a question. It doesn’t help.”

“Well, maybe _I’m_ serious,” he says. “What do you want to tell them, Riley?”

She doesn’t even think before she kisses him, pulling him to her and pressing up on her toes just a bit, messy and chaotic and too fast, just like everything they do. His hands find her hair and she tightens her grip on his arm, willing him to be closer, wanting him to be nearer.

When he pulls away she lets out a tiny sigh.

“Riley,” he says, “we’re in the _hallway_.”

“I know,” she says. “But what if we weren’t?”

“Well,” Maxwell answers, “We don’t have to be.”

It takes them less than a minute to find a door, and Maxwell says, “It’s the study, no one ever goes in here,” and Riley is already pushing him back against it as the lock clicks and her lips find their way back to his. They’re frantic all over again, like every minute could be the last one, like they’re running on borrowed time.

Or maybe it’s just the adrenaline of it all: the way his hands trace her collarbone while she shrugs off her dress, the tremble of her fingertips as she undoes the buttons on his shirt, the whisper of kisses against exposed skin. The fluttery feeling has returned, threatening to overtake her this time.

She pulls back. “Max.”

“Mhmm?”

“Do you think…” She hesitates. “Do you think Liam would understand, if I… if I told him how I feel and, maybe if we—”

“Riley,” Maxwell sighs, pushing back his hair with a hand, “You shouldn’t talk like that.”

“Why not?” She reaches for his hand, threading their fingers together. “I think we’re already there.”

He kisses her forehead, and she closes her eyes for a moment, breathing him in.

“Look,” he says, “It’s not that I don’t… that I don’t think those things, about… about you. I do, all the time, and after yesterday, I’m just not sure how to explain…”

She kisses him, her free hand cradling his cheek, murmuring against his mouth, “It’s okay, we don’t have to talk about it right now.”

It’s Maxwell who pulls back this time.

“No, you were right, we should talk about it,” He purses his lips, looking down at the ground, then back to her face. “It’s just that—”

Suddenly, he freezes. “Oh _shit_.”

Maxwell is staring over her shoulder, eyes too wide. And she knows, already, she knows, but she yanks up her dress and turns anyway, just to confirm.

Drake is standing there, behind the desk, an empty glass in one hand and his expression twisted in shock.

For a moment, no one says anything.

Finally, Drake manages a weak “you could’ve knocked.”

“I thought you said no one ever goes in the study,” Riley hisses, crossing her arms tight over her chest.

“Um.” Maxwell blinks. “I forgot that Drake sometimes goes in the study.”

Drake waves, expression still dumbfounded. “Hey. Drake. In the god damn study, right now.”

“Why didn’t you _say_ anything?” Riley stares at him. “You’ve been in here the whole time and you couldn’t — I don’t know — cough for courtesy?”

“Well, when I heard the door open I figured it was just some random court hookup,” Drake says, “Not… you. So forgive me for being a _little_ speechless.”

“At least you don’t have to tell him anything now,” Maxwell whispers to Riley. She glares.

“Jesus,” Drake folds his hands behind his head, pacing along the line of bookshelves. “Okay. Okay.”

“Drake,” Riley starts to say, “wait—“

“Nope.” He holds out a hand. “Put your clothes on, I’m not having this conversation with both of you looking like the first half of a low budget porno.”

“ _Low budget_?” Maxwell scoffs.

Riley pulls her arms back through her sleeves, then steps forward tenuously.

“Listen,” she begins, “Drake, we can explain—“

“You’re a ‘we’ now?” He shakes his head. “Aldridge, seriously? This is like, more than a one time thing?”

“Technically,” Maxwell says, “It’s been a no-time-thing, what with the inhabitants of this house and their constant disregard for privacy.”

“How many times do I need to reiterate that _I was in the fucking study first_?” Drake lets out a frustrated sound, then pauses, narrowing his eyes at Maxwell. “Is this why you made that double denim comment at brunch?”

Maxwell looks at him incredulously. “ _What_? No. I made that double denim comment because you were _literally_ wearing double denim at a royal function.”

Drake frowns. “It’s coming back in style.”

“Good _god_ —okay,” Riley shakes her head. “First of all, _no_ , double denim is _never_ coming back in style, and second,” she holds up her hand, “Let me just say that this is not ever how I wanted to start this conversation with you, Drake, but we’re going to talk now. I promise. I’ll explain everything.”

“No shit,” Drake sighs. “Well, the coronation is tomorrow, so you better get started.” He slumps down into the desk chair and looks at his empty glass. “Something tells me this is going to call for a lot more whiskey.”


End file.
